“You have shit friends,” he tells me.
“They’re not shit.” My reply is ludicrous. I’m defending a bunch of people that don’t exist. But I don’t want him thinking I’m the type who would surround herself with shit friends, which doesn’t make sense, because why would I care what he thinks of me?
“They are shit. They left you here alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I pull the phone from my purse and wave it in his face. “I have this. And I have Luke,” I add, waving a hand in his direction.
“Luke’s not yours.”
I blink. “He’s not?”
“I’m not?” Luke adds.
“No.”
“You can’t say that.”
Kelly lifts his brows. “I just did.”
“I mean you can’t tell me who’s mine or who’s not.”
“I can tell you whatever I like.”
“Well, technically that’s true, but if I want Luke to be mine, it’s not for you to say he can’t be.”
This conversation is utterly ridiculous. I can feel Luke’s gaze swinging back and forth between the two of us. “I can be yours,” Luke adds. “If you want.”
My eyes shoot to his. “You’re just that easy?”
He shrugs. “I can make you work for it if you’re the kind who likes a challenge.”
“That’s enough.” Kelly’s voice thunders between the both of us, drawing our attention back to him, and confirming my previous thoughts. “Luke is not easy, and he’s not yours. I am.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “You’re easy and you’re mine?”
Luke snorts so hard he chokes on his drink.
“That’s right.” Kelly says the words with as much seriousness as he can seemingly muster, yet I don’t miss the twitch of his lips. “Tonight I’m all yours.”
“Your offer is …” Egotistical. Appealing. Tantalising. “… unwise.”
“Unwise? Why?” Kelly’s bulk crowds me, making it hard to breathe, to think. “You the type that wants to peel the skin from my body and wear it as a suit?”
I laugh. Again. What is it with these two? I’m trying to pull off an impossible heist, and here I am drinking, surrounded by two delicious man-flirts. Besides, if any skin peeling is going on tonight, Echo is going to be the one doing it to me for missing my chance at the Firebird.
“I could be the type,” I reply. “That’s the issue. You don’t know me.”
“I do. Your name is Arcadia. You like triple chocolate muffins.” My mouth opens to reply, but he continues, leaning in to speak in my ear. “And I’m Kelly.” His voice is low. It tickles my skin, bringing shivers of pleasure. “I like eating girls who eat triple chocolate muffins.”
“Actually, her friends call her Ace,” Luke points out while I work on remembering how to breathe.
“I’m not here to be her friend,” he replies, holding my gaze.
I should be offended. He wants to have sex with me and move on. A one-night stand. He’s making it clear. With his words. With his eyes. I’m not going to lie to myself. It’s tempting. Even with the suit. He’s not my usual type, so walking away tomorrow would be that much easier, right?
Back it up. It sounds like I’m trying to talk myself into this. Fuck you, vodka. I tuck my purse under my arm and twitch my dress into place. “Time for me to go.”
“You got a ride?”
It’s the same thing Kelly asked me when I left him at Fix. It was tempting then. It’s tempting now. I hesitate. “I’ll send for an Uber.” He nods and I turn to Luke. “It was nice meeting you.”
“See you around, Ace.”
“I hope so,” which is the truth. I like Luke Fox. There’s a depth to him I haven’t uncovered, a darkness hidden beneath his cheeky façade.
I turn back to Kelly, not ready to say goodbye just yet. “Walk me out?”
“You got it, babe.”
He takes my hand, his palm warm and rough. My fingers curl into his, holding on as he leads the way. I keep my gaze to the ground. Partly because I don’t want to stumble in the heels I rarely wear and partly because it’s become second nature to stick to the shadows. Keep my face hidden in crowds. Be unobtrusive.
5
Kelly
I tug at Arcadia’s hand, so small and unexpectedly delicate in mine. It reminds me she’s not the kind of girl I’m used to. My usual encounters are with women who are hardened and rough. Experienced. The kind who can withstand the harshness inside of me with no expectations. I was raised in a household of violence, and from the age of fifteen, I belonged to the Sentinels. Warmth and kindness doesn’t come naturally. The only affection I remember is a vague recollection of my mother’s smiling eyes, of her kissing my brow at night before I slept, but it’s fleeting. When I try grasping the memory, it slips through my fingers like sand.
We step outside. Cold blasts through me, right through the fibres of my suit to my skin. We’re smack bang in the middle of winter, my least favourite time of the year.
Arcadia’s gaze encompasses the back parking lot with surprise, shivering. “What are we doing out here?”
“Leaving.”
She pulls at my hand, trying to free herself of my grip. I automatically squeeze tighter. “But I’m getting an Uber home.”
“Not anymore.”
“What?”
I shrug. “I’ll take you home.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why?”
Yeah, Kelly. Why? I’m not for the likes of her, so why am I unable to let go of her hand? “Because I’m leaving anyway.” It’s an honest answer. I can never stay long at these parties. They’re a reminder of how little I belong in that kind of world. They make me uncomfortable. I can never say or do the right thing, unless we’re talking about bikes and cars. Mostly, I feel like a bull in a china shop, as if I’m going to break something at every turn. I look into Arcadia’s stormy blue eyes. Will I break you too? Highly possible, but even that isn’t enough to relax my hold. “Where do you live?”
She studies me, as if her time is precious and she’s deciding whether she wants to spend any of it with me. Eventually, she appears to make a decision and rattles off her address.
I lead her through rows and rows of cars until we reach my bike. It’s parked at the back by the gardens. She stops in front of it with furrowed brows, her eyes sliding across the gleaming metal and leather. “This is yours?”
Arcadia sounds surprised.
Now that I know she’s not going to run, I release her hand. “Yeah.”
“You ride a Harley.”
“Yeah,” I reply again, tugging at the tie around my neck. I loosen the knot and yank the torturous device over my head.
“But …”
“But what?” I prompt as I stuff the tie in the side pocket of my saddlebag when I should be tossing it in the shrubs behind me instead.
“N-n-nothing.”
Arcadia is stuttering from the cold. I didn’t think to ask if she’d checked a coat before I dragged her out into the frigid air. Stupid! “You got a coat?”
“No.”
I stare at her exposed skin when I’ve been trying to do anything but. It’s smooth and golden, despite the chilly season of winter. I want to trail my fingers over her shoulders and down where her chest rises and falls. I want to feel that smoothness beneath the rough pads of my fingers.
I take a step closer, intending to do just that.
Arcadia’s chest stops moving. She’s holding her breath as if she knows exactly what I plan to do. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Yes. No.” Her fingers clench into fists by her sides yet she holds her ground. “Yes. A little.”
I process her confession. I’m surprised at her candour, but I find myself liking it. There are no games with honesty. No need to read between the lines when I struggle to simply read the lines.
I reach up and touch my index finger to her collarbone, where it protrudes sharply. Her eyes flutter closed. Just like that. The slightest con
tact. I trace a path along her skin. It’s soft, like the fragile petals of a flower.
I exhale, my voice rough. “Do you like me touching you?”
Arcadia swallows and opens her eyes. “Yes.”
“I should get you home.”
“You should.”
My finger trails lower, making no move to leave. “Have you been on a bike before?”
She shivers. “I have.”
Arcadia’s response evokes a vision of her riding the back of some other guy’s bike, her hands on his waist, holding him tight, a smile of pure pleasure on her lips. I withdraw my touch, the image a barb.
“My brother’s,” she adds. “He used to own one. Not a Harley, but a Triumph Street Twin. It was a real retro classic. But he sold it.”
“Your brother has taste.”
She shrugs like she doesn’t want to continue that line of conversation any further, and she wraps her arms around herself, rubbing them up and down. I move to my saddlebag, rifling through the contents for a jacket. I don’t find one. I pull mine off and hold it out. “Put this on.”
Arcadia shakes her head. “I’m okay.”
“That wasn’t a question. Put it on.” I wave a hand toward her dress. “You can’t ride a bike wearin’ nothin’ else but that.”
She takes it, sliding her arms inside the sleeves and pulling it tight around her. The jacket hangs off her like a child playing dress-up, but she seems more relaxed. I grab my helmet next, a full-faced one in deference to the cold, and hold it out. “You can put this on too.”
Her eyes fall on it. “No, I’m good.”
My brows rise. First, she rejected my initial offer of a ride, then the jacket, and now the helmet. “Do you have a problem with me?”
Arcadia shakes her head. “No. I just don’t want to wear it.”
“Why not? Worried it’s gonna mess your hair?” I tease. The pretty strands are pulled back into a complicated twist at the base of her neck.
“No!” She rolls her eyes, but there’s laughter in them. “No … I just, don’t want to wear it.”
“Safety first.” I step inside her personal space and plonk it down over her head, flipping the visor. “There.” She looks ridiculous in the oversized jacked, helmet, and heels. I wink. “Looks hot.”
“Kelly!” she shouts, her voice muffled. She yanks it off, panting, hair and eyes wild. “I can’t wear it, okay?”
The offending helmet is shoved into my gut. I take it because she’s already let it go and turning to walk away.
“Hey!” I grab her bicep. She comes to a stuttering halt with a huff, and I drop my hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, Ace? It’s just a goddamn helmet.”
Gritting her teeth, Arcadia closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she’s glaring with frustration, her cheeks pink. “I suffer from claustrophobia.” She gestures at the helmet in my hand. “I can’t breathe in those things. I can’t breathe in elevators. Or locked rooms. Planes. Traffic congestion.” She exhales a slow, even breath, as if trying to find calm. “It’s … debilitating. Sometimes. So maybe I should get that Uber.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” She seems embarrassed, so I don’t make a big deal out of it by saying anything more. Instead, I jerk my head toward my bike. “Climb on. I’ll drive slow. Use the back streets.”
After shoving the helmet in my saddlebag, I swing a leg over and sit. As the bike settles beneath my weight, I turn to Arcadia, expectant. She has to hike up her dress a little and hops on behind me with less hesitation than I expected. Her thighs press on either side of me and her front against me as she relaxes into the seat. I stifle a groan.
“Hold on, babe,” I instruct, my voice raspy with want.
Her arms slide around my middle as the bike roars to life, her hands linking at my waist. Her hold is firm, trusting. I place a hand on both of hers and turn my head, giving her a sideways glance. All I catch with my eyes is her profile, but there’s a smile on her lips. One of anticipation. She’s excited.
“You good?” I ask loudly.
Arcadia’s smile morphs into a grin. “Giddy-up, cowboy!”
I laugh and shake my head. I’ve never had this kind of interaction with a female before. Where it’s fun and easy. It’s not for lack of trying. I’m just no good at it. Perhaps it’s the women I hook up with too. They don’t want a connection, not with a guy like me, and it never seemed to bother me. I thought I was getting a great deal, fucking around with no strings. But this … Arcadia makes it easy. She’s making me see what it could be like and maybe I want more.
Maybe.
The drive to Arcadia’s house isn’t anywhere near long enough. Her frequent jostling makes me hard as she twists and turns, taking in the sights around us. I take the scenic route, navigating the beach streets slowly. It allows her time to appreciate the ride and me to appreciate her tits rubbing against my back. Whenever I pull up at a red light, she leans in close to offer directions. Her breath tickles my ear and sends waves of lust crashing over me until I’m drowning in it.
“I don’t want this to end,” she says at the next red light, her voice loud to be heard and husky from the chilled air. We’re almost at her house, having taken an inordinate amount of time travelling north along Sydney’s eastern beaches.
“Me either,” I reply, but the light turns green, and my words are lost to the wind as I accelerate into the night.
We reach her house and I pull into a paved driveway. It’s a quaint style cottage, painted white with navy trim. The lawns are a lush green with overflowing climbers bursting with flowers of pink, most of their petals closed as if sleeping for the night. I was expecting a bland yet sleek apartment of some sort. Probably based on my first impressions of her being a desk jockey and studying books thicker than the pipes on my bike. But this place has charm and personality, much like Arcadia herself.
She climbs off while I’m studying the exterior, and the chill inside of me returns at the loss of her body heat. I turn off the bike. It’s late at night and the silence surrounds us, almost deafening in its intensity.
“Thanks for the ride, Kelly.”
“You’re welcome, Arcadia,” I reply, my tone stiff.
She hesitates, and this is where I’m expecting the brush off. The drive would have been sobering, the vodka in her system wearing off and leaving her lucid. Enough to remind her I’m not her type. That I’m not anywhere good enough. I swallow the uncomfortable rise of disappointment. I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl other than fuck her anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
“You can call me, Ace.”
I nod. “Ace.” This is the part where I should leave but curiosity has the better of me. “How’d you get that nickname?”
A smile kicks up at the corners of her mouth. “Why don’t you come inside and I’ll tell you.”
“You want me to come inside?”
She shrugs and shifts a little on her heels. “Yeah. I do. I can make coffee?”
Coffee is just a euphemism for let’s fuck, right? I’m on board with that, though it niggles at me—the thought of this being a one-time thing. What if I want more than that? Then I realise I sound like a girl. Fox would laugh his ass off if he could hear what was going through my head right now.
“Sure, babe,” I reply smoothly, offering a wink as I slide from the bike. “I’d love a coffee.”
* * *
Arcadia
Kelly follows me up the stairs to the little timber porch. This big hulking hunk of man is right behind me, his steps heavy, his scent surrounding me in a cloud of male pheromones that set my lady parts throbbing. What am I doing?
All I know is that I’m not emotionally prepared for him to leave. That ride on his bike was … freeing. For a small window of time, I had no troubles. I just had someone big and warm to hold on to as we rode through the night. I’m not ready to let that feeling go, which means I’m not ready to let him go.
I flick my gaze behind me as we reach the front door. He offers me
an intense stare, unsettling me in all kinds of delicious ways. “You ah … need to turn around.”
His brows rise high on his forehead. “I need to turn around?”
“The key,” I say. “It’s ah … hidden near the door and I need to retrieve it.”
“Babe.” His blue eyes spark with exasperation. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I am,” I reply, a little defensively. “It might be near the door, but it’s not in a spot that anyone would ever find.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands, surrendering as he turns around. I wait a few moments to make sure he’s not peeking, then I scramble quickly for the key.
I have potted plants along the porch, positioned against the weatherboard exterior. Wedged in each are little solar lights. They get hit with the afternoon sun and light up at night. It’s pretty. Sometimes I’ll sit on the porch step at night with Mason, chattering with a beer as we watch the sun go down.
I yank out the nearest solar light and unscrew the base. The little metal key tumbles into my hand. I re-screw the base, push it back in the pot, and straighten.
“Okay, you can turn back now.”
Kelly turns, his eyes searing as they rove over me. It fills my belly with butterflies. So many I feel I may throw up. I spin for the door, jamming the key inside the lock. It twists beneath my fingers, and I open it. It creaks lightly and I wince.
“You live alone?” Kelly asks as we step inside.
The house is dark and quiet inside. I bend, flicking on the switch of the nearest lamp. A warm glow fills the room, illuminating the cosy living area, dining nook, and kitchen. It’s small but it’s mine. I take off his jacket and lay it neatly across the back of the couch.
“No,” I say over my shoulder as I move to the kitchen. Kelly is overwhelming the space, making his shoulders appear even wider than I remember them to be. It’s like parking a Mack truck inside my house. “My older brother and I live here.”
Kelly baulks. “He home?”
“He was when I left.” And I’ve no doubt he’s still here and fast asleep. Mason is not a partygoer. He’s a homebody, preferring the company of friends and simple outings, like barbeques and movies. I pick up the kettle and move to the sink. My gaze flicks up as water gushes from the tap, filling it. Kelly appears unsettled, as if Mason is about to charge out from a nearby room with a baseball bat. “He’ll be fast asleep, but we can have our coffee outside or … in my room.”
The Thief Page 5